Sunday Dinner at Aunt Jane's House: Step Fourteen

Some people and places take on epic proportions in life. Often it’s a parent or a sibling whose impact resonates in everything you do. Certainly my mother, father, sister and brother had and still have tremendous influence over my thoughts and behavior. Yet, somehow I know the one person who left an undeniable imprint on my persona is my Aunt Jane. When we would go to the house on Hi-mount Boulevard for chicken dinner on what seems like every Sunday for many years, even if Dad would ask, “Who wants to go to Uncle Joe’s?” because after all that was his brother, we knew to whose house he was referring. Aunt Jane had a personality larger than life. She had a zest for life and affection for everyone she encountered. When someone came into her store she made sure that person received the attention necessary to make him or her want to return again and again. Her little grocery bore her indelible mark and she practiced customer satisfaction as a way of living. While we didn’t get to the store as often as the house, whenever I did get a chance to visit her there, she always asked, “Well how’s my Marko?” She loved adding long vowels to the end of short names. Naturally, Uncle Joe was Joey, but if you went by Ann or Dan, you could count on her calling you Annie and Danny. I’d always leave the store with an apple, pear, or banana, never a piece of candy. On a hot day we might get a popsicle, but she believed in the value of nutritional snacks. For that matter, she knew value. Whether it was a relaxing ride in the country, or sitting on the comfortably upholstered leather lounge chair on the enclosed porch, or the heavy cast iron skillet in which she placed the freshest pieces of chicken, her life was filled with quality and value. Besides pure white flour I’m not sure what herbs and spices she used to batter the breasts, thigh and drumsticks that crackled in that skillet, but the moment anyone stepped into her kitchen the aromatic bouquet kindled the salivary gland to the point where calling dinner mouth-watering was redundant. My cousin, Carrie, was ten years older than me and so was off to college in New York by the time I reached the third grade. Even though Allen was five years older, if Stuart, our mutual cousin who was right in between us in age, came over I was likely to be included in playing catch, raking leaves, or whatever was going on in the backyard before dinner. After dinner we would wash dishes and watch Ed Sullivan before heading home. Occasionally, the routine would change. My fondest memory is of the time she and Uncle Joe hauled out their coin collection. The store had been a treasure trove of amazing currency. There were Indian head pennies, liberty head dimes, silver dollars, and twenty-five dollar gold pieces. To me the most memorable item was a five-dollar bill with portraits of both Lincoln and Washington on it. I’ve never seen another like it and I’m not sure if it was legitimate, but I can still picture it clearly. That day she had something special for her Marko, my first two-dollar bill, with the portrait of the third president of the United States, Thomas Jefferson. As always, your comments and stories are welcome.